


12 Days of Yuletide

by vol_ctrl



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Christmas Presents, Established Relationship, Holidays, Letters, M/M, Parody, Short & Sweet, Unclear, maybe?? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28096470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vol_ctrl/pseuds/vol_ctrl
Summary: A parody of the12 Days of Christmastraditional tune, as can only be done by Vox gifting to his beloved adversary.Or, a series of letters from the desk of Alastor upon receiving a series of increasingly elaborate gifts from his insufferablymodernfoil during the holiday season.
Relationships: Alastor/Vox (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 120





	1. On the first day...

_On the first day of Yuletide, my Adversary sent to me…_

_A cellphone, with a selfie_

My esteemed Adversary,

I expect this _unexpected_ gift comes due to the season, but I assure you that I do not receive it in good cheer. I am not lacking in portals upon which to glimpse your visage, as your _incorrigible_ spirit visits everywhere one might look.

I will put it in a drawer with the others.

Never yours,

Alastor


	2. On the second day...

_ On the second day of Yuletide, my Adversary sent to me… _

_ Two tailored gloves. _

_ And a cellphone, with a selfie _

My forever Foe,

Imagine my surprise that you recall how bitter cold my hands do become in the season, regardless of Hell’s indomitable heat. The gloves are very comely, though I shudder to think just how you discerned my exact measurements. An old wound, perhaps?

Cordially,

Alastor


	3. On the third day...

_ On the third day of Yuletide, my Adversary gave to me… _

_ Three dressed hens, _

_ Two tailored gloves, _

_ And a cellphone with a selfie _

Dearest Rival,

My, you are in the holiday spirit. How handsomely these  _ hens  _ came trussed at my doorstep. I believe goose is more traditional, but I see you made do. Tradition is hardly the  _ point  _ when the  _ hens  _ have such  _ character. _ They shall make a fine, albeit  _ small,  _ meal. 

If you were expecting an invitation to dinner, you’ve run  _ afoul  _ by providing such meager offerings.

Sincerely,

Alastor


	4. On the fourth day...

_ On the fourth day of Yuletide, my Adversary gave to me… _

_ Four calling birds, _

_ Three dressed hens,  _

_ Two tailored gloves, _

_ And a cellphone with a selfie. _

Darling Enemy,

This  _ bird  _ theme can stop here. You need not send  _ birds  _ to call upon me at every mealtime. But I should not be surprised that  _ you  _ could arrange for  _ singing telegrams. _ I must say I can appreciate the notion, as I have never received one in the flesh. Or feathers, as the case may be. 

They did sing beautifully, and doubly so as I liberated them of their vocal chords.

Regards,

Alastor


	5. On the fifth day...

_ On the fifth day of Yuletide, my Adversary gave to me… _

_ Five garotte strings, _

_ Four calling birds, _

_ Three dressed hens,  _

_ Two tailored gloves, _

_ And a cellphone with a selfie. _

My dearest Victim,

I did not realize you were so  _ attuned  _ to the state of my piano. These strings you have given me are lovely, but I’m afraid gold is a poor material for any utility I might have use for them. However, I invite you to test this theory. Perhaps your throat is made of more delicate flesh than most… 

Devotedly,

Alastor


	6. On the sixth day...

_ On the sixth day of Yuletide, my Adversary gave to me… _

_ Six deceased a’laying, _

_ Five garotte strings, _

_ Four calling birds, _

_ Three dressed hens,  _

_ Two tailored gloves, _

_ And a cellphone with a selfie. _

_ Darling, _

What  _ do  _ you take me for? A carrion bird? A scavenger? I must presume these  _ corpses  _ are meant to be decoration, as they are certainly not fit for consumption. You might as well have left me  _ TV dinners  _ for the state that these are in.  _ Pre-cooked,  _ to put it kindly.

They are  _ festive,  _ I will give you that. Of all your electrical annoyances, I find the string lights least offensive.

Yours,

Alastor


	7. On the seventh day...

_ On the seventh day of Yuletide, my Adversary gave to me… _

_ Seven sinners screaming, _

_ Six deceased a’laying, _

_ Five garotte strings, _

_ Four calling birds, _

_ Three dressed hens,  _

_ Two tailored gloves, _

_ And a cellphone with a selfie. _

My dear,

Whilst deeply engrossed in the latest volume of  _ Eater’s Digest,  _ what should I hear? Ah, a chorus of revelers, perhaps? No, a far sweeter song than that. Not the distant wails of discontent, but a concert of dismay right upon my lawn. How very beautifully they sang. I took my afternoon coffee upon the porch to enjoy the show.

However, I must say, I am unaccustomed to putting so much  _ effort  _ into the receipt of a present. Ah, well. It did work up the appetite.

Always,

Alastor


	8. On the eighth day...

_ On the eighth day of Yuletide, my Adversary gave to me… _

_ Eight hearts a’beating, _

_ Seven sinners screaming, _

_ Six deceased a’laying, _

_ Five garotte strings, _

_ Four calling birds, _

_ Three dressed hens,  _

_ Two tailored gloves, _

_ And a cellphone with a selfie. _

Mon padnat,

It appears you  _ can  _ take direction. I had no idea you could orchestrate such a thing with that  _ untamed  _ voltage of yours. The post-mortem electrical suspension did leave a rather  _ funny  _ taste, I must admit. However, the  _ presentation… _ A  _ feast  _ for the eyes as much as the belly.

I couldn’t eat another bite, but perhaps an aperitif… I’ll leave the light on.

Until then,

Alastor


	9. On the ninth day...

_ Nine courses catered, _

_ Eight hearts a’beating, _

_ Seven sinners screaming, _

_ Six deceased a’laying, _

_ Five garotte strings, _

_ Four calling birds, _

_ Three dressed hens,  _

_ Two tailored gloves, _

_ And a cellphone with a selfie. _

Vox,

I know not whether your intent is to keep the beast at bay, or awaken it. You have fed me so well, albeit with some stumbling along the way. Although… I think now this was all part of your scheme.  _ Lower  _ expectations so that you could impress. A clever--perhaps cheap--trick, mon padnat.

I write to thank you with the taste of that fine port still upon my tongue, in nightclothes and robe, with my feet up by the fire. I wonder what feast awaits tomorrow, as you so implied.

In anticipation,

Yours


	10. On the tenth day...

_ On the tenth day of Yuletide, my Adversary gave to me… _

_ Ten waltzes aus Wien, _

_ Nine courses catered, _

_ Eight hearts a’beating, _

_ Seven sinners screaming, _

_ Six deceased a’laying, _

_ Five garotte strings, _

_ Four calling birds, _

_ Three dressed hens,  _

_ Two tailored gloves, _

_ And a cellphone with a selfie. _

  
  


I see why you fed me so well! Ah, my feet have not been so sore in a decade. I was surprised you knew of  _ Walzer aus Wien,  _ but of course, as with every scrap of culture you cultivate in that head of yours, you have your Hitchcock and  _ modern adaptations  _ to thank.

Perhaps it’s not so bad, to revive the old in the new… I shall be humming waltzes for days.

Alastor


	11. On the eleventh day...

_ On the eleventh day of Yuletide, my Adversary gave to me… _

_ Eleven radios reveling, _

_ Ten waltzes aus Wien, _

_ Nine courses catered, _

_ Eight hearts a’beating, _

_ Seven sinners screaming, _

_ Six deceased a’laying, _

_ Five garotte strings, _

_ Four calling birds, _

_ Three dressed hens,  _

_ Two tailored gloves, _

_ And a cellphone with a selfie. _

Perhaps it’s true what they say, absence does make the heart grow fonder. I found myself almost disappointed that it was not  _ you  _ serenading me, but I will admit the models you acquired are a suitable, if not preferable, substitute. Is this what you would call  _ surround sound?  _

I have always swain toward walnut and darker grains, but the cherry wood suits me well. The surprises are neverending: you  _ do  _ have taste.

Yours


	12. On the twelfth day...

_ On the twelfth day of Yuletide, my Adversary gave to me… _

_ Twelve Voxes vocalizing, _

_ Eleven radios reveling, _

_ Ten waltzes aus Wien, _

_ Nine courses catered, _

_ Eight hearts a’beating, _

_ Seven sinners screaming, _

_ Six deceased a’laying, _

_ Five garotte strings, _

_ Four calling birds, _

_ Three dressed hens,  _

_ Two tailored gloves, _

_ And a cellphone with a selfie. _

  
  


I renege on the statements from my previous letter. When I said  _ absence makes the heart grow fonder,  _ I certainly did NOT mean that a  _ riot of doppelgangers was IN ORDER. _ You have erased all the good tidings you fostered. If I could return all your  _ gifts,  _ I would.

Do not call, do not write, and  _ most certainly do not deign to send me any more ‘gifts.’ _


	13. On Christmas day...

“You dz-dx-didn’t  _ mean  _ that.”

“I most certainly did.”

Vox nods his screen. “You answered the dz-dx-door,” he points out lightly.

“I was on my way out.”

Vox notices Alastor pulling at the cuff of one of the gloves he had given him at the start of his little calendar of gifts. “I thought it was fz-fx-fun!”

Alastor gives him a withering look. “You know how I feel about your idea of  _ fun. _ ”

“Oh,  _ cz-cx-come on, _ Al.”

Alastor peers at Vox from under moody, hooded lids. The media Overlord is dressed in a handsome overcoat, a hint of a winged collar peeking from the wide, thick lapels, wearing a smile that Alastor can only call  _ subdued. _ It’s always curious to see Vox in something other than his standard fare, but Alastor refuses to take the bait. “I believe I told you--”

“Ah--you dz-dx-didn’t say anything about dz-dx-dropping by,” he’s quick to point out.

That settles the fang-grinding tension firmly in Alastor’s jaw. “You’re intolerable. Even just  _ one  _ of you is too many.” Alastor buttons his own overcoat and sweeps past the pest leaning in his doorway.

“Sz-sx-since you’re on your way out.” Not to be deterred, Vox turns on his heel and falls in step with Alastor down the stairs of the porch.

“ _ No. _ ” Alastor lifts his chin and refuses to even glance at Vox, lest the insufferable demon think he’s willing to entertain him.

“Join me for a sz-sx-stroll?” Vox offers his bent elbow in a handsome gesture.

Alastor’s ears twitch, suspicious of such an offer. “To what end…?” he asks, flicking his gaze at Vox.

“No ez-ex-end,” Vox insists, pausing only to open the wrought iron gate at the boundary of Alastor’s property. “Just a  _ sx-sz-stroll. _ ”

“I’ve long since surrendered all hope that I can deter you from anything,” Alastor mutters. “If you and I happen to be walking in the same direction and you wish to call that a  _ stroll,  _ that’s no business of mine,” he bites back with a bitter smile. “But should you try any more of your  _ schemes-- _ ahem,  **_gifts_ ** ,” he corrects in a tone so dire and threatening that it chills the very air between them, “I will not be so restrained as to merely send you a strongly worded note.”

If Alastor thought that a threat was the way to keep Vox in line, he was sorely mistaken. It was the threats that Vox found so _irresistible_. He did so love to dote on Alastor, keep him guessing, but the other side of that coin was that he could not _help_ himself. Rankling Alastor was nearly as good as pleasing him. It was their _way._

“Don’t tz-tx-tempt me with a good time, sz-sx-sweetheart,” Vox says with a technicolor grin.

Alastor scoffs and quickens his step.

“You kz-kx-kept the gloves,” Vox points out, already pushing his luck.

“As much as that last little stunt reminded me of how much I  _ detest  _ you, I detest waste even more.”

“They sz-sx-suit you.”

“So you’ve said.”

“C’mon, Az-Ax-Al. It wasn’t  _ so  _ bz-bx-bad, was it? Being  _ sz-sx-serenaded  _ by a chorus of yz-yx-yours truly?” Vox insists.

“If it had only been caroling, I might have detested it less. But the lot of you--coming into my house, chatting away, rifling through my things--”

“We were not  _ rz-rx-rifling, _ ” Vox protests with a swaying step.

“One of you was going through the drawers of my writing desk, another was moving picture frames about, and who knows what that trio upstairs were doing--”

Vox can’t help but chuckle as Alastor’s ire rises and boils over.

Realizing that he is only playing into Vox’s hands, Alastor cuts himself short and fumes at him with a look that would have demolished a lesser man, heels clicking out his irritation.

“I had to uz-ux-up the ante, Alastor,” Vox says by way of defending himself. “There were fz-fx-feasts, and dz-dx-dancing, and what more could I gz-gx-give you other than the  _ gz-gx-gift  _ of myself?”

“Why should I want  _ more  _ of you?” Alastor balks.

Vox raises a brow and tilts his screen with a slow, spreading smile. “Jz-jx-just the one is enough…?”

Alastor’s grinning scowl stays pinned to Vox. That stupid television could talk his way in and out of anything. It’s a skill Alastor has, admittedly, always found one of his few redeeming qualities.

“I do prefer you in the singular. Inasmuch as you ever  _ are  _ singular.”

“You  _ sz-sx-singularly  _ adore me.”

“That is  _ not  _ what I said.”

But Vox can see that the angry set of his ever-present grin takes that amused  _ shine,  _ begrudging as it might be. He presses on, “But it’s what you meant.” He insists his arm toward Alastor once more.

The temptation of the gesture so full of old-fashioned charm is too great. Alastor relents and slips his gloved hand into the crook of Vox’s arm.

“Hmm…” Alastor hums and tips his head toward Vox. “Just what do you have up your sleeve this time, Vox..?”

Vox looks innocently at Alastor, at that raised brow so alluring in its suspicion. “Whz-whx-whatever do you mean, sweetheart?”

“The streets are vacant. The screens are dimmed. Carols are playing. The only thing missing is--” Alastor’s voice catches in his throat as he sees it: snow beginning to fall. “... Now, isn’t this a spectacle,” he says in a quiet, flat tone.

Vox can barely contain his pleasure.

“As I recall, you don’t  _ do  _ weather,” Alastor muses, swallowing back a creeping sensation in his breast:  _ delight. _

“You think I cz-cx-can’t bend the very  _ sz-sx-skies  _ to my will?” Vox asks with an overzealous grin.

Alastor chuckles. “I have many doubts about you, darling, but the persistence of your will is not one of them.” He looks side-long at Vox, his amusement growing as he wonders if Vox was so  _ determined  _ in his will, he overlooked a crucial detail. “But I seem to remember a certain  _ television  _ on the fritz during the rainy season…”

Vox levels Alastor with a look.

“It’s not real snow, is it?” 

“Don’t be a Sz-Sx-Scrooge.”

Alastor looks pleased with himself as he returns his gaze to the quiet streets and the falling ‘snow.’ “It is very… atmospheric.”

“Bz-bx-but wait--there’s mz-mx-more…!” Vox dials down his bravado to suit the quiet intimacy of this stroll with his beau, but only just.

Alastor sighs. “It’s never enough with you.” He is contented just with this. Alas, Vox is surely about to play his final hand and ruin what good will he has managed to recover.

Vox strolls onward, leads Alastor down the streets not lit by television screens, but by twinkling strings of lights. The  _ glow  _ of the modern city the Pentagram has become is much kinder in this light, almost… pleasant.

As a matter of fact, ever since Vox’s rise to power, Christmastime in Hell has been a bit more, dare he say,  _ traditional. _ Lights strung around telephone poles and festooned over the streets. Of course there were also the garish advertisements urging to  _ buy, buy, buy,  _ boasting sales and encouraging Sinners to out-do one another in lavish gifts--mostly by treating  _ oneself  _ to a very merry Christmas--but before… well, Alastor can’t rightly remember. Was Yuletide even marked by any occasion before Vox arrived? Alastor finds that his memories of Hell before Vox are… indistinct. Consumed with fear and ambition, marked only by massacres and a growing reputation, an increased berth between himself and other Sinners.

“Dz-dx-did you ever make it up to the Bz-Bx-Big City?”

Alastor is shaken from his thoughts, from that thoughtful reverie caused by the snow and the incredibly quiet streets and the sedate pace of their steps. “Which?” he asks, then realizes Vox means  _ Before. _ His brow narrows in warning.

“Nz-Nx-New York,” Vox says patiently.

“Yes…” Alastor is cautious about where this line of questioning is going. It’s as though Vox arranged all this to  _ purposefully  _ lull him into that nostalgic mood.

“At Christmas?” Vox grins and slows his pace. They’ve made it to the center of the Pentagram. The screens that normally blare a storm of noise and assault the senses with rapid channel changes are calmly displaying more twinkling snow, adding to the ambiance. The center of the Pentagram is suspiciously dark, only lit by that ever-present red twilight of Hell. Alastor can make something out, but before it quite registers, the lights go up and he’s almost blinded.

The roar of a happy crowd erupts all around and Alastor’s fingers dig into Vox’s arm as his eyes adjust. Blinking, claws snapped like a vice in Vox, the spectacle comes into focus. An  _ enormous  _ tree absolutely dripping with lights has taken over the center square. The roar of the crowd comes artificially. There’s no one around but them. The sound  _ fills  _ Alastor and he’s left frankly… awe-struck.

Vox, for once, restrains himself, bites back the chuckle that comes to his throat as Alastor’s fingers threaten to tear through gloves and coat and suit. He watches the Radio Demon, drinks in  _ him  _ drinking it in. He wants to tell Alastor how much  _ trouble  _ he went to for all this, to harangue him about all the logistics and the sheer  _ expense  _ of it all, to brag about how long he’d been planning this and how flawlessly he achieved it.

But he doesn’t. Seeing Alastor’s red eyes shining in the electric glow is enough.

For once in their afterlives, Alastor and Vox stand quietly together. Arm-in-arm.

The crowd noise fades away naturally, and Alastor’s chest  _ aches. _ He had forgotten what a joyous crowd sounded like--true, unbridled delight. It’s  _ that  _ so much as the tree that strikes him, because it’s not just the impressive tree or the sheer amount of twinkling lights that bring out the magic of the ceremony. It’s the  _ joy  _ of the thing.

“... Yes. It was something like that.”

“You sz-sx-saw it?”

“Rockefeller Square, 1933.”

“That wz-wx-was the first.”

Alastor chuckles. “And my last.”

Vox remains quiet.

“I should have stayed in the City.”

“Oh, I dz-dx-don’t think that would have chz-chx-changed anything.”

Alastor finally shifts his gaze from the lights, peers at Vox. “I wonder.”

Vox smiles at him. “Apz-px-ppropriately dazzled?”

“Is this your form of  _ apology? _ ”

Vox barks out a laugh. “Me? Az-ax-apologize? Whatever fz-fx-for, sweetheart?”

Alastor smirks. “It’s beautiful.”

That shut Vox up. He stares at Alastor, that blunt honesty that so rarely came to the surface, even his voice drained of that radio filter. He’s quiet again, crystalizing this moment. “... I wz-wx-wanted you to see it bz-bx-before the denizens of  _ our fz-fx-fair city  _ see to its destruction.”

“You went to a lot of trouble.” Alastor can’t deny that.

Vox’s screen lights up. “I did,” he agrees proudly.

“Was it worth it?” Alastor’s not sure he sees the point. At least not for Vox. What did he  _ gain  _ from all this?

“Yes,” Vox replies simply.

“Why?” Alastor is genuinely curious.

Vox looks over at Alastor. Befuddled curiosity looks good on him, that smile different by degrees. Smaller, less that grimace-grin he plasters on his face like a mask. It’s softer, more natural. His own smile shrinks by degrees, dialing back his own mask. 

Vox shrugs. “I wonder.”


End file.
